Hands on training

I placed the word so high so that you could get the hang of it. High is meant to be high, higher, the highest.

Now, I am sitting at the balcony eight floors above the ground. I start thinking about being High.

I envy the man who is addressed for his Highness. It’s crazy, that he is addressed for his Highness. I have been High for a lot of times, but who gives two hoots about my High anyway?

I am lost in the clouds. I cannot feel the ground under my feet. We humans are designed to feel the force all the time. We are being pulled to the centre of the earth so that we should be burning at its core.

They say that it’s for the first sin. We wanted to fly high, so we should fall. Fall to the core and watch ourselves melt. But the ground is strong enough and our legs stronger still. We apply the force to the ground and feel the pain.

Coming back, now I am lost in the clouds. The refreshing white mist around me. It’s’s all over me. I inhale. My nostrils feel fresh for the first time in my life.

I should have been inhaling the clouds all the time, I wasted my whole life breathing air. Dry, raw, hot air. I should have been feasting on this cool, refreshing, chilling cloud of the skies.

Damn Gravity, it keeps pulling me back.

So I take the High. They celebrate his Highness, but frown upon their highness.

They are the chaos.

If you don’t know how to handle your high, you better not take a High. But I am no one to advice, when I go off the cliff, I don’t get a high, I hit a local minima.

Now, I start wondering about the way people cook their food. Some people keep the fire under the plate, someone over the frying pan. They cook, they roast, they burn.

We eat.

When I was a kid, I used to ask my momma if drugs are good. She used to tell me that drugs pull people out of pain. I trusted her. Later I experienced it. Drugs ease pain.

A pigeon flies to the balcony. It lands on the coffee table and walks around the whisky glass. The smoke doesn’t scare it away. I ask her if how is the high. It says me that its boring.

She is always High.

No drugs, Nothing to do with the loins, no love. She is always high.

I ask her if she makes love in the air when she is high. She makes a noise and flies away. I am alone again. The wind gives me a chill.

I could hardly lift my eyelids. I have lost count of whatever I was consuming. Contrary to popular belief, we consume our thoughts. We don’t produce them. If you don’t agree, try ‘producing’ a thought.

You don’t know from where they come from, you just consume them. Then you celebrate because it came from you. The world is strange!

The road was empty and there stood a police man well armed. He started making guesses about the murderer. He was hundred percent sure about each of the guesses. And you know what they did to him?

They shot him.

The camera was not in the perfect condition. So they shot him again.

This time he died.

Nobody protested because people stopped valuing life a long a ago. There are 7 billion people on this planet. Too much supply, less demand. No doubt, the price plunged.

The images of a hundred million hungry faces flashes over my eyes. I can’t turn away from them. They are in front of me, behind me to the left and right. They are around me.

I hear a sea gull far away. The chilling wind again passes across my balcony. I pass out.

Written on July 6, 2015